Having always had a travel itch for Paris, Christine decides it would be a wonderful idea to tackle the Paris Marathon in the year of her 50th birthday. The first thought barging into my brain is, ‘well, we’ll need to do some carbo loading, so why not begin in Italy’. And so as winter regurgitates the spring our trip is set!
Our first stop is Italy’s hydrated city of Venice where the streets are made of water. Hopping aboard a ‘vaporetto’ water-bus we join a flotilla of gondolas and other watercraft plying the commercial spinal cord of Venice; the Grand Canal. Building foundations cloaked below the water create the wonderful hallucination of a floating city, and the canal has justifiably been baptized as ‘the most beautiful street in the world’.
Cruising under the Rialto Bridge I lean over and give Christine a kiss, marveling that we are actually here. Docking near famous San Marco Square, we use Sherlockian skills to burrow through a confusion of narrow alleyways to our hotel before promptly unpacking and rescuing some wine trapped inside a bottle.
In the midst of clinking glasses on the balcony a serendipitous moment unfolds. A gondolier in a traditional stripped shirt gracefully oars his sleek and shiny black gondola through the canal below while belting out a song. We share a gurgle of laughter enjoying our own private episode of Italian Idol as gondola and gondolier disappear down the canal, leaving behind only ripples lapping up against the foundations of the medieval buildings. Aaah … quintessential Venezia!
San Marco Square is besieged with pigeons known here as ‘the flying rats of Venice’. Strolling through the square the sky oddly begins raining down feathers all around us, as one luckless member of the pigeon posse has just met an untimely demise.
At night the streets are alive with a glut of busking puppeteers, costumed mimes, musicians, and mask sellers. However, in these tourist-riddled areas the overwhelmed Italians are hardly a threat to win any congeniality contests as snobbery reigns supreme; and with their Venetian noses stuck up so far in the air, it’s a wonder they don’t drown when it rains!
In this Euro-eating city one almost needs an inheritance to purchase a meal, and we learn the hard way that sitting down in a restaurant also invokes a healthy 12% service fee. Even the glass of water and bread automatically brought to the table will have several Euros laying down their life. Mamma Mia, with the pillaging of patrons’ pockets it’s no bloody wonder so many Italians choose to eat on their feet!
For next time we solemnly vow to do take-away so we don’t have to declare bankruptcy by getting our buttocks involved! And on the subject of buttocks gentlemen, let the record show there is no shortage of Italian beauties who love to accentuate the jiggle of a superior posterior. Balanced atop precariously high heels, the arousing flirtations in denim strut their butt in designer jeans strained to the point of rupture.
Reluctant to follow normal tourist routes we quickly discover Venice is not an easy place to get to know. Exploring a puzzle of alleyways seemingly patterned after a laboratory’s rat maze, we stumble upon a small tavern with a gaggle of gruff grandfathers chitchatting over a glass of their beloved vino. Sitting down to enjoy a glass ourselves, we get a kick out of seeing them using their hands for emphasis while speaking a sing-songy language with all words seemingly ending in a vowel.
The island of Murano has glass galore but the sameness is a bit of a snore so we press on. Three trains later we arrive on the opposite side of Italy in the coastal area of ‘Cinque Terre’. The World Heritage Site is comprised of five little fishing villages that host a jungle of pastel homes defying gravity by clinging limpet-like to sheer rock cliffs.
In the past these villages could be reached only by donkey or boat, but now with a commuter train in place the old donkey paths have become a hiker’s paradise. We’ve chosen to stay in the picturesque and precariously perched village of Vernazza, that once home to only fisher folks, has since morphed into a tangle of tourists where nowadays the ‘fish’ walk the streets buying jars of pesto!
Breathing in a new day we begin hiking the romantic Via Dell‘Amore; a footpath stretching through all five villages of Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. The ‘Path of Love’ sneaks through groves of olive trees clinging for dear life to an almost vertical hillside, and treats us to vistas a seagull would envy with the Mediterranean Sea a sheet of wrinkled turquoise far below. Bellissimo!
In Manarola we stop for a tasty pastry and a high-octane cup of hot chocolate so thick it has to be spooned out of the cup! Rising from the sea, the unorthodox main street has boats parked on it instead of cars, and sitting out on the sidewalk during our ‘breakfast with the boats’, we’re wondering if it’s also socially acceptable for the locals to wear hip waders to their wedding!
Hiking all the five hamlets in less than three hours has jostled our joints into submission, and to appease them we purchase a bottle of Limoncello. Today is Easter, and back in our room the thoughtful owner has placed a Calla Lily and a few little chocolates on our bed. Limoncello and chocolate? Yup, that works for us!
Suffering from terminal osteoporosis, the tipsy tower of Pisa is overwhelmed by a crush of tourists mugging for their cameras so return to Vernazza; and packing our bags, ride the rails to Milan for a connecting train to Casorate Sempione in the Italian region of Lombardy. Christine is definitely in a grump, having had no idea our routing would take her through Milan. Aware of it being the fashion capital of the world, I can neither confirm nor deny that I somehow forgot to divulge the city as being on our itinerary.
Truth be told, I’m fearful of losing the house and both kidneys to cover the debt should the woman escape even briefly to cruise for shoes! Escorting ‘Ms. Thrill-at-the Till’ to the train under duress, her exasperated eye-rolls let me know I’ve been found guilty of my ploy. Usually we’re on the same page, but this time we’re not even in the same book! With no acquittal in sight, it’s clear my perturbed and petulant princess is much more than moderately miffed at missing out on moseying about the metropolis of Milan!
After checking in at Castagni B & B’s lovely old mansion we dawdle about the tiny village buying food rather than fashion; which in my estimation will be significantly more useful for tomorrow’s picnic. In regards to the cold war created by circumventing Milan, my fashionista wife may be on the road to forgiveness, but is hardly at the destination. It seems that Hell hath no fury like a woman shanghaied out of Milan!
Seeking directions in the town of Arona on Lake Maggiore from a stylishly stout older Italian mama, she says in a limb-aided lingo: ‘you no walk-a dis way-a, only howses and moomoo’. Her response curls up our lips, and we offer our thankyous before choosing the alternate fork in the road.
A few miles later we plonk our sit-upons down on the shore of Lake Maggiore just outside of the picturesque town of Stresa. Swans elegantly glide past to say hello as we kick off our shoes for a picnic in the sun. Our pack births a bottle of wine, cold cuts, tasty cheeses, juicy strawberries, and a crusty baguette so fresh that we almost have to slap it. Savoring the kiss-your-fingertips collage of calories under a bluetiful sky, we admire the calming vistas of the lake and the Borromean Islands.
Extracting the charm out of a new day, my watch alarm sullies the silence by rudely rousing us at 3:45 in the morning. After rushing to the airport we are dejected to learn our flight to Paris has been cancelled due to a strike by air traffic controllers in France. We wait, and wait, and wait. Thirteen hours of terminal tedium definitely takes the pep out of our step, and our delay is further aggravated by the apathetic airport staff that appears to have all graduated with honors from the college of ‘Eye-Don’t-Geef-A-Sheet’!
During the arduous ordeal we strike up a friendship with a French character also named Marc. We learn that he is a well-known artist, and just to drop a couple of names, happens to be friends with Fidel Castro and the Prince of Monaco! Once we finally arrive in Paris our new Ami insists on having his driver deliver us directly to our booked Saint Pierre Hotel. What for the most part has been a horrendous day, ends with a big tip of the chapeau to Marc for a pleasant introduction to his beautiful city.
After playfully verbal sparring with our good natured hotel manager named Mohammed over the first 24 hours, we ask if we can switch to a larger room as ours is barely bigger than a phone booth. Flashing gleaming enamel, my rival smart-ass banters me into checkmate by articulating; ‘oui; for ze madame, ear ees a key to a room on ze 4th floor, and pour vous cher monsieur, a pillow on ze street!’
‘Bonjouring’ our way about old Paree buying food for a picnic in the park, we find Parisians much friendlier than their reputation for aloofness suggests. Later, with the light of day sliding away we munch tasty crepes for dinner under the most beloved and conspicuous of Parisian landmarks; the magnificently illuminated Eiffel Tower.
Finally leaving the awesome thousand foot iron tower, we splurge on a night cruise along the charming River Seine. Paris is known as the ‘city of lights’ for good reason, and captivated by its sprawling beauty we can’t help but snuggle and share a lip-lock as the boat passes beneath the city’s stunningly luminescent bridges. Ooo–la-la, Paris can certainly be a charmer!
Walking different arrondissements today we stop at a park beside the amazing Notre Dame Cathedral, and lowering our ass to the grass for a picnic, are chaperoned by gothic gargoyles whose ugliness cannot be over exaggerated. Early to bed tonight with the marathon looming tomorrow!
The Paris Marathon
Today is D-Day, and we are harshly dragged to consciousness by the piercing insistence of my watch alarm. Knuckling sleep from our eyes we peer bleary-eyed out the hotel window into the dark of morning and race preparation commences.
Donning our running gear, we pin on our numbered race bibs, hydrate, eat a banana, tape nipples, hydrate again, and apply Vaseline to feet, underarms, and other strategic areas. All warriored-up, the two Victoria foot soldiers are now combat-ready, and armed with another banana, leave the womb of our room to make our way to the marathon starting line.
Of 35,000 entrants registered from 87 countries, only 28,261 are actually starting. Even though the number is significantly less than when I ran with 43,000 plus runners in the Holy Grail of the 100th Boston Marathon, Christine and I know that with today’s 56,522 hurried legs in play we’re going to lose each other once the race begins. Agreeing to meet back at our hotel when it’s over, we share a big hug and wish each other well; vowing there’s no chance in France we will fail in our mission!
With daybreak revealing completely empty blue skies and the temperature already at 27 degrees my guess is today’s forecast calls for pain! Nervous energy and anticipation ratchet up the tension at the starting line as the final seconds are counted down.
BANG! The gun sounds and runners are propelled forward in a labyrinth of legs from corrals on the spectator-lined grand boulevard of Champs Elysees. The main trick for runners is avoiding the flotsam of skiddy discarded plastic water bottles now befouling the street.
This race is dubbed the ‘Monumental Marathon’ because of all the iconic structures residing along the way; including the Louvre, Bastille, Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, and Arc de Triumph. Runner’s euphoria kicks in, and my shoes thud rhythmically along the road for the first 10 km despite the ballooning temperature. Motivation is provided by enthusiastic bands, dancing girls, and large crowds screaming ‘Allez, Allez’!
Some degree of masochism is a prerequisite for running a marathon, but a nagging hip injury along with today’s weather climbing into the early thirties begin to confiscate my confidence. Around the 25K mark the smile miles have evaporated. My ‘hammies’ are yapping at me, and I don’t much like what they have to say!
The race passes by many applaud-worthy Parisian sights but at the 30K point I meet up with that bastion of brutality known as the ‘Wall’. No, not the Pink Floyd record album – simply a point when body muscles run out of glycogen and it feels as if an invisible hippopotamus has chained itself to my ankles!
With the day now hotter than a hillbilly finds his sister I pour water over my head at a rare aid station, and gasp for breath as it cascades down over my overheated body. Avalanched by fatigue, I think I’m lapsing into delusion when I see a 12’ apparition pass me by. Nope, it’s real. Sacrebleu, I have just been passed by a guy on stilts!
With every muscle and tendon angry, I plod on with the speed of a three-legged elephant; doggedly determined to fulfill our promise to each other of finishing. The sun prickles my skin as the kilometers slooooowly tick by, and marinating in moan as I approach 35 K, I realize the time no longer matters. At age 58, my 2:50 marathons are now just memories from a time when I wore a younger man’s sneakers.
This marathon is not about the clock, it is simply about finishing. The wailing of ambulances busy tending to runners done in by the heat is a sound heard far too often today, and I pass by three more runners being stretchered off the course.
Running the last kilometers that the thighs despise in the seemingly unending Bois de Boulogne Park, my lungs also begin to boycott the run. Each slap on the asphalt causes a tsunami of agony in my noodled legs; but wait, what do I see ahead? Could it be? Hell yes it could – it’s a wine stop! Where else but Paris would a Medoc group be doling out gallons of plonk to struggling runners 39 km into a marathon?
With faltering feet and a podium finish improbable, I no longer give a frog’s fart about my time, and stop for a few glugs of grape; though what I really want to do is bathe in it! A German runner also stops, and we drink a toast to making it to the end. After the brief respite I slosh off in a geriatric shuffle towards the finish, hoping like hell not to end up like Phidippidès!
The harsh 32 degree heat continues taking its toll on runners. Over 6,700 registered runners chose not to start today’s marathon, and of those of us who did, another 1,322 are unable to finish. Inept race organizers were unprepared for the heat and put runners at serious risk by running out of water at the aid stations.
With an enthusiastic crowd buoying my spirits, I command my knackered body over the final 200 meters to the appropriately named Arc de Triumph. Wobbly of knee and looking like a drunken tarantula, I cross the finish line on Avenue Foch to complete the 42.195 kilometer run. Pardon my French, but all I can say is thank Foch it’s over!
Everything aches, take your anatomical pick, and like so many mega runs before I’m now moving about like a brontosaurus with chaffing issues! Gingerly gimping down the Metro steps to return to the hotel, I’m worried about Christine surviving the heat, knowing how desperately she wants to complete this marathon.
While soaking my less than stable legs in the tub trying to ease my aches, Christine shuffles in giving me the complete smile; the one birthing cheek dimples. She too has completed the run and is ready to celebrate an accomplishment worthy of her half century of planetary occupation! We bathe in a shared euphoria, having completed the famous marathon under such difficult conditions.
For our final day in enchanting Paris, Christine is off on a last minute mall-trawl. It’s simply part of her DNA! However, allergic to the idea of bearing witness to the damage, yours truly traipses off to the local market, where among other things, they’re selling beautiful flowers, lush fruits, ugly fish, and naked rabbits. We hook up for dinner at a delightful French bistro, and in a quintessentially Parisian manner, sit out on the sidewalk enjoying our meal and watching the Parisian sights. Tomorrow we are Belgium bound.
Bruges is considered Europe’s best preserved medieval city, and passing crisscrossing canals, a historic church, and horse-pulled carriages clopping on cobbled streets we enter through the ten foot doors of the charming 1745 built Setola Bed and Breakfast.
In the countryside we cycle beside tree-lined canals hosting great-crested grebes, and crossing the border into Holland, stop in the little town of Sluis. At a lakeside café beside a fountain spewing water skyward we order frites and a glass of Kriek; entertained by a pair of audacious foraging ducks beneath the table that waddle their webbed feet right over top of our shoes!
Our next stay is in the French Riviera’s charming seaport city of Nice on the Windex blue Mediterranean Sea. Beautiful old buildings, vibrant street life, pebbled beaches, year-round sunshine, and the lovely Promenade des Anglais make for a few very relaxing days.
We also decide to visit the confetti sized Principality of Monaco; the world’s second-smallest country. Home to Mazeratis, martinis, mega yachts, and multimillionaires, Monaco is irrefutably all about money; both spending it and flaunting it! In the space of 15 minutes waiting for a bus, four exotic Ferraris slink by and fiercely accelerate up a hill with the throaty snarl of a leopard on steroids. Our impression is anyone living in Monaco with less than several million Euros is likely to be considered on the poverty line!
Moving on to the sun-drenched Cote d’Azur, we whittle down the last few days with visits to Villefranche, Antibes, Menton, Saint Paul de Vence, and Canne. About as lively as the Egyptian Sphinx, each of the rather underwhelming towns seems undistinguishable from the last, and let’s just say that of all the cities we’ve visited in our travels, we will always remember these as, well, some of them.
But it really doesn’t matter, we have been totally spoiled by previous highlights experienced on the trip. We take this simply as a sign that it’s time to take a ‘French leave’ from our travels, and airmail ourselves back to Canada for a well-earned rest before drinking from the travel trough again.
Mark Colegrave April 2007